masterpiece
by thefrostedrose
Summary: post Heist Society: A typical day at Bobby Bishop's Parisian apartment becomes most atypical :: probably the most fluffy thing I've ever written :: Romance/Humor :: Amelia/Bobby because that is the true ship of Heist :: title from 'masterpiece' by madonna, the song that most accurately describes this relationship


"Good morning, sweetheart." It's always a different term of endearment each day; 'darling', 'honey', 'princess', 'gorgeous', 'beautiful', 'love' - which he does in a mocking British accent. Amelia Bennett curls deeper into the soft cotton sheets and closer to him and the warmth of his skin, not bothering to open her eyes.

She squirms closer to him when he places a soft kiss on her forehead, and finally opens her eyes to meet his crystal blue ones. The spring Parisian light filters through the curtains, covering the room in a soft, warm glow.

"Good morning." She mumbles into Bobby Bishop's neck, and he chuckles quietly.

"Sleep well?"

"Mmmhmm." She breathes out as his arms drag her further into his chest.

"And what would you care to do today, Ms. Bennett?"

"I don't want to get out of bed." She shakes her head, pouting, and his fingers drift over her bare skin, causing her to shiver.

"Don't want to get out of bed?" He replies, a smile forming on his face. "Sounds like a good plan to me."

"Wonderful." She murmurs, pressing a kiss on his lips

. "I'll make you a deal," He hums against her skin, and she lets out a sigh. "How about breakfast first? Then bed all day."

"Perfect." Amelia grins, but pouts when he moves out of bed, immediately missing his warmth. She closes her eyes, snuggling into the blankets a few more minutes before she smells coffee wafting from the kitchen.

She sits up slowly, pulling a baggy knit sweater of her head as she pads barefoot to his kitchen, dark hair shining in the comfortable light coming through the big windows, which offer a spectacular view of Paris and the Eiffel Tower.

She hums softly to herself as she makes her way into the kitchen, fetching supplies on her way to make omelets. As she cracks eggs into the skillet, she can feel his hands rest on her waist, his lips on the back of her neck. It's terribly distracting.

"It seems you've forgotten your pants, Ms. Bennett." His hands run down her smooth, bare thighs slowly, teasingly, and she lets out a sigh.

"I don't see any objections on your part, Mr. Bishop." She smirks, checking the bottom of the eggs.

"No objections whatsoever." He chuckles darkly into her hair, his lips moving to the side of her neck, and she focuses all her energy on ignoring him and folding the omelet in half. He pulls anxiously on the edge of her black panties, and she can't believe she's resisted him for this long.

"I thought we were going to have breakfast first." She reminds him, putting the omelet on the plate and turning around in his embrace to face him. He laughs, kissing her on the nose gently before moving to pour them coffee.

"Depends on your definition of breakfast." Bobby smirks, and she shoots him a look that feigns seriousness before slipping into the seat across from him at the dining table, which is covered with newspapers, Interpol paperwork and pamphlets on different art museums. She leans back, and despite it not technically not being her apartment, she feels completely and utterly at home. Her hands encircle her cup of coffee, and she notices he's staring at her.

"What are you looking at?" He smiles over his cup of coffee.

"You, darling."

"Someone's quite randy this morning." She comments, raising an eyebrow at him, and his fingers tangle easily into hers.

"Interpol won't be missing you?" He changes the subject softly, and she shakes her head.

"They won't mind." She takes the last bite of the omelet, before standing up to place the plate in the sink. "And it would be quite nice if you could take your eyes off of my ass."

"I didn't think you minded." He stands up with a lazy smile, moving across to where she's standing.

"I don't, but it's…distracting." She whispers as he steps closer enough that their noses are brushing.

He's leaning closer to her, his soft lips just a fraction in front of hers, but with a small smiles, she walks away, down through the living room. He chases after her, scenes of the Seine and Sacre Coeur and the Arc de Triomphe flying by outside the window, gleaming in the late morning sun.

"Amelia-"

"Aren't you coming?" She nods at him to hurry up, and he shakes his head with a laugh. "I'm not particularly in the mood to be shagged on the dining room table."

"You certainly weren't complaining two days ago." Bobby counters, and she flushes red, turning around quickly and finally letting the flirting and the tension snap and kissing him. It's not sweet and light and teasing like the others; it's hot and elicits a groan deep in her throat, the way one hand is fisted in her hair and the other is gripping her hips against his.

And much later, she's lying on her stomach in that comfortable bed, propped up on her elbows and redressed in that warm sweater and in his opinion, troublesome panties. The sky has darkened, the city lights of Paris and the stars twinkling out the window, and one light is one, bathing the room in warmth. They've spent the day talking (well, some of it, anyway), because their level of comfort is surprising for people who haven't known each other particularly long, but when he's with her, it's like she's know him her whole life.

"Favorite museum?" She asks, fingers wandering up his arm, and she looks up at him.

"Don't make me choose, Amelia." He pleads, slumping a little more against the headboard.

"Too bad, I am."

"…The Louvre. You can't go wrong in the Louvre." He whispers.

"I'll let Interpol know." She jokes, and he lets out a sigh.

"You?"

"The National Gallery." She whispers, scooting to sit up across from him. "I've been going since I was a little girl, and London is my home."

"I quite like London." He comments. "Maybe a weekend there, soon." She moves to straddle his waist.

"Sounds lovely. Maybe go to that nice pub on Whitehall again - what was it's name, dear?" She wonders, her lips on his jaw, and it's like his eyelids are getting heavy, and he's overwhelmed by her delicious scent.

"I…" His can't form any coherent thoughts with her hips grinding much too tantalizingly slow against his, her lips moving down to his neck, her hands wandering over his bare chest. "Fuck, Amelia."

His lips are crushed against hers, and the smirk that was pulling on her lips quickly fades. A hand pushes into her lower back, pressing her flush against him. It's needy and wanting and she let's out a groan when his other hand winds into her soft dark brown locks. He lets out a sigh, letting the hand that was on her waist drift to the hem of her sweater, before resting a palm on the soft skin underneath, making her shiver.

Her mind is a blank slate when his pulls gently on her hair, revealing her swanlike neck. Her heart is thudding in her ears as his lips move on her neck. Her hands find their way into his black, slightly curly hair, trying to hold him as close as possible to her.

"Bobby?" Her voice is a raspy whisper, a tad tentative.

"Hmm?" He murmurs against her neck.

"Have you ever thought about us, I don't know…" It's hard to focus on the words coming out of her mouth, but she says them anything. "Getting married?"

He pauses, lips still on her neck, and she feels as if both of them have just been drenched in a bucket of icy water.

"What?" He leans away from her, and she shifts nervously on his lap, swallowing hard.

"I don't know, I just…I mean, have you?"

"Is that what you want?" He says seriously, and more than anything she wishes they were back kissing and she had never said anything in the first place.

"Yes." She admits, and she can't meet his eyes. She can feel her whole relationship with him crumbling around her, and her lungs are squeezing together in her chest.

"You know that would take things to a whole new level of complicated." He whispers. "I'm still a thief, and you're still a detective with Interpol."

"A rather dashing thief." She tries to lighten the mood, and he smiles slightly.

"And you're a rather ravishing detective." He counters. "But…"

"I shouldn't have said anything. Just forget it." She shakes her head.

"No, no. Tell me - what would the wedding be like?" He whispers, tangling his hands in hers. "You've obviously thought about it."

"Well," She looks down in her lap, before continuing slowly. "It would be in England, somewhere in the countryside, at an estate; Chatsworth, maybe, in Derbyshire, or Highclere. And the color scheme would be lavender and cream and grey, and we would serve lobster and steak, and the caked would be four tiered, gorgeous ivory, and we would go to Fiji on our honeymoon…"

"Keep going." Bobby whispers.

"And there would be a string quartet," She blinks. "And white roses. And our first dance would be…spectacular." She finally looks up at him, feeling the blush creep across her face. His hand brushes a lock of hair out of her face, before cupping her face.

"That sounds," He pauses, staring deep into her eyes. "_wonderful_." She lets out a breath, and she's torn between tears and kissing him.

"Amelia Bennett," He begins, shaking his head with a soft grin. "You are awful for me, you know that? A thief and a detective is unheard of in my world. _You're forbidden._ But you are good for me, too, the light to my darkness. You're everything that's wonderful and perfect, and you're everything that I'm not. You're truly my better half. _I love you_, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to marry you."

She moves her mouth, trying to find the right words, but tears stream down her cheeks instead. He brushes them away gently with a slight laugh.

"And if you would have just waited a few more days…" He turns to his bedside table, throwing open the door and feeling in the back, and her stomach flips. He slowly pulls out that little black box that she has been dreaming of for days. "Marry me, Amelia."

"No."

"_No?_" He blinks in exasperation.

"You call that a proposal, Robert Bishop?" She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. "I've been dreaming of this for days, and you're just going to order me to marry you? I think not. I do have a choice in this matter, you know."

"Should I propose again at the top of the Eiffel Tower while watching fireworks?" He suggests sarcastically.

"No, nothing so dramatic and clichéd." She shakes her head. "Get down on one knee." She moves off of him, allowing him to get up, and get down on the floor.

He's on one knee, and she stands up in front of him. His eyes are on his long, bare legs though. He's pressing soft kisses on them, moving higher and higher up her thigh… "Focus, Robert."

"You know, it's actually really hot when you order me around." He looks up at her under those dark eyelashes, but she crosses her arms again, refusing to give in, shooting him a look.

He smiles warmly. "Amelia Bennett," He flicks open that box, and she's never seen a ring so perfect; she remembers showing it to him, too, while they were looking at jewelry in Cartier a few weeks ago. "Will you marry me?"

She pretends to think about it a moment, watching the look of anxiety on his face. "_Of course I will_."

Tears slip down her face again, and before she knows it, he dragging her down to the floor and into his arms. His lips are crushed against hers and she smiles against his lips, looking forward do these kisses for the rest of her life. And the ring his slipped on her left hand, his fingers tangling with hers.

And suddenly she's pinned to the floor, his body pressed so close to hers and she knows he's probably cursing her panties again in his mind. He's practically ripping off her sweater, her legs moving and tangling with his, and she lets out a soft groan before pulling all of her strength together and separates her lips from his.

"Our first moments as an engaged couple, and you're going to try to fuck me on the floor?" She rolls her eyes.

"Is that a complaint I hear, Ms. Bennett?" He laughs. "You didn't have a problem with it last week, if I do so recall."

"_Bobby_," She means it to be serious, but he teasingly grinds his hips against hers, so it comes out as a pleading gasp. He just laughs, but picks her up easily, stands up, and places her gently on the bed.

"I love you, you know that?" He whispers, taking her face in his hands.

"I know," Her hand moves down his muscular arm. "I love you, too. Now will you please kiss me already?"

"God, you're bossy."

"_Bobby_."

He rolls his eyes in fake annoyance, but gladly obliges.


End file.
